


Adhesion

by a_taller_tale



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, RvB Platonic Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 06:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12427185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/pseuds/a_taller_tale
Summary: Oh no, he’s not going to cry again, is he? There’s nowhere to escape on this ship, but Locus’s eyes dart around to search for some place to hide anyway.





	Adhesion

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scene between "Objects in Space" and "Grif Does a Rescue." Hurt/Comfort for RvB Platonic Week.

“I know they’re not my friends,” Grif says, looking lost amongst the volleyballs he insisted on strapping in like passengers, with extra care for the ones painted maroon and dark blue. 

Locus barely keeps himself from hitting his helmet against the console. “I should hope so,” he says instead, hoping this won’t invite further conversation. 

“I didn’t mean these guys.” Grif gesturing, his helmet is off and the soldier’s manic mood is even more obvious with his wild hair and swollen eyes wreathed in dark circles. “I meant the guys. I know they’re not my friends. I don’t have friends.” 

It was the first time that Grif had stopped speaking for more than a breath, even while inhaling rations like he hadn’t eaten in days. The peaceful quiet had lasted less than a minute. But Locus is able to resist any outburst. He was never as theatrical as Felix. 

“El amigo,” Grif mutters to himself distractedly. “La amiga. Mis amigos. Me odian.” 

Grif is holding the ball with the red helmet on it against his chest plate tightly. It represents the Red sergeant. The old man had spoken about Grif frequently when Locus was with Washington and the other simulation trooper at various federal army bases on Chorus. His recollections of “Negative” First Class Private Grif hadn't exactly been... complimentary. 

But what does Locus know about friends? And what does he know about comfort? It's barely within his skill set to understand that comfort is what the simulation trooper is asking him for. 

Locus frowns. “Stop pitying yourself. You are no use to them that way.” 

“Lopez said they’re not dead.” It’s a true statement, but the sim trooper’s voice lilts up at the end like it’s still a question. 

“They weren’t dead when they told the robot to find you and strapped him to a rocket. …That’s not an effective way to send a message. They would have been dead if I hadn’t happened to see him hurtling through space and intercept him.” 

Grif’s face crumples. Apparently, that was not a comforting thing to say. 

Locus pauses, thinking. “I was in the military a long time, and for every team there are certain people that hold the mission together. They unite volatile personalities and create cohesion. They’re necessary for the successful accomplishment of the mission.” 

Siris was that for them. Maybe Siris leaving them was what led he and Felix to Chorus. Maybe if Siris had been with them, they would not have gone to Chorus at all. But it’s no use speculating about theoreticals. His sins are his own. 

Grif is feeling the lines and stitches in the ball, turning the messily put together face of red paint and taped gold foil towards him, but Locus can feel him listening. The soldier has been hanging on his every word since Locus picked him up, despite their previous status as enemies. As though it’s been a long time since he’s heard a human voice. 

It could only have been a few weeks of isolation, but Locus read the files on all the participants of Project Freelancer he’s had to deal with. A few weeks alone would have been enough for someone untrained to deal with isolation, even without any previous trauma. And none of them have that status. 

“There are certain people that hold a mission together,” Locus repeats. “You’re one of them.” 

Dexter Grif snorts derisively. “The most useless laziest member of Red Team, the second shittiest army in the entire universe?” 

Locus does not know how fate brought him here, to give a motivational talk to this nothing soldier from a manufactured war that alone would have never stood a chance against him. And somehow the fates had brought them together twice now, in a long life of meeting and killing countless people. Locus takes a deep breath, swallows it, and decides to consider this another part of his atonement. 

“You’ve had trouble before,” he says. “During your years of service.” 

“Man, we’re never out of trouble. Oodles of trouble. All the trouble.” 

“But you’re still alive.” Locus points out, and Grif can’t argue that point since he’s standing here, annoying him and wearing orange… just like his last partner. “When you’re with them, they succeed. You unite them. You’re the cohesive element they’re missing.” 

Aiden Price would have said that Felix and Locus attempted to get a new team member as a buffer to make their partnership functional again, but the man who insisted on spray painting a shark on his helmet was a poor substitute for Siris’ logic and pragmatism. Felix talked about Sharkface a lot behind his back as stress relief. It did take some of the pressure off of Locus as the only target when the mission kept going worse by the hour. 

“The only thing they’re ‘cohesive’ about is how much they all hate me,” Grif says, pulling Locus out of his own thoughts. He has to stop thinking about Felix. He has to focus on the mission. “So… I quit. I left them. I’m the reason they’re in trouble.” 

“No, Dexter Grif,” he says. “You’re the reason we’ll save them.” 

Grif’s face crumples again, although it looks like he’s fighting it this time. Its odd to see him like this. He had seemed one of the ones most in control of his emotions. Locus hadn’t had much reason to take note of him before. 

Oh no, he’s not going to cry again, is he? There’s nowhere to escape on this ship, but Locus’s eyes dart around to search for some place to hide anyway. That’s how he misses Grif lunging forward. His first instinct is to flip the enemy over, pin him, and snap his neck, but he’s able to suppress it, quickly realizing he’s not under attack. Not a physical attack anyway. 

There are arms locked tight around his torso and Grif buries his face in Locus’s chest like he’s trying to burrow. “We have to save them. They’re not my friends, but I don’t want them to be dead. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t do that. I can’t. They can’t.” 

Grif’s grip tightens, and Locus knows it’s not about him, it’s about any human comfort. The military is a hard place. There is not a lot of gentle touching. After a few moments, it’s not bad to be touched without ill intent. It just takes some getting used to. 

Locus relaxes as much as he can, resting a hesitant hand on the other man’s back. “We’ll save your friends.” 


End file.
